


Theremin's Protege Part III: Reset to Default

by Taylor Dancinghands (tdancinghands)



Series: The Cold War Collar Affairs [4]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Alternate Universe - BDSM, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-01
Updated: 2013-12-01
Packaged: 2018-01-03 03:56:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1065480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tdancinghands/pseuds/Taylor%20Dancinghands
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Napoleon has won his submissive's freedom, but at what cost to himself, and to Illya? It takes a little while for each of them to realize the toll it has taken, and longer still to put things back to rights.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Giving credit where credit is due:The BDSM Universe was origionally created by [ Xanthe](http://www.xanthe.org/bdsm-universe/) and this author uses it with her acknowledgement.  
> Beta Reader: The highly precise and efficient [spikesgirl58](http://spikesgirl58.livejournal.com/)
> 
> Plus: graphic depiction of a (consensual) fisting and includes a mangled fragment of Kipling

Napoleon Solo knew well, from long experience, that even following a hard won battle, the third and last act was often the hardest part of an affair. They had won the challenge, presented themselves to the guard station and waited for the guards to decide that no one else was coming to contest Napoleon's victory. Eventually they had been given a helicopter ride back to Moscow, but their ordeal was far from over. 

Napoleon was tired and aching all over and all he wanted to do was have a long hot shower, curl up in bed with his sub and wait for UNCLE's plane to come and get them. Instead they had to endure a lengthy 'congratulatory' dinner during which their Soviet hosts were clearly lying through their teeth every time they declared that 'the better man' had won. Reznikov did not attend. Napoleon was plied with copious amounts of vodka throughout and while he did imbibe a small amount to dull the pain, it was no more than that, as he knew he would be expected to perform later in the evening.

Illya, the 'prize' of the proceedings, was hardly acknowledged at all, though Napoleon kept him leashed and close all evening. Illya stood at his Top's side when Napoleon stood, and knelt when Napoleon sat, eating from his Top's hand when dinner was served as no place was set for any submissive. They were both greatly relieved when the dinner came to an end and he and Illya were allowed to return to the 'privacy' of their room. Napoleon knew that privacy to be an illusion, however, and that yet one more performance was expected of them.

More than any of the other acts they'd had to take part in for this affair so far, this last one would be a true performance for an unseen audience which Napoleon frankly hoped would include Reznikov. He began by giving Illya a hard and lengthy spanking —though not so hard or long that Illya didn't enjoy it. It was easy to make each blow of his hand on Illya's buttocks sound very loud but cause little pain, all the while declaring loudly that he was sure that Illya's Soviet masters had not punished him enough during his time with them.

When they'd both had enough of this, Napoleon laid back on the bed and commanded that Illya prepare himself, then ride his master's cock. He chose this position mainly because it would tax his injured ribs less, but he made it sound harder by instructing Illya that he must not touch himself and that he might come but only under this condition. Napoleon knew full well that Illya was capable of bringing himself to climax without being touched while he was being fucked and, after a respectable length of time spent loudly fucking, Illya came and Napoleon followed.

Napoleon ordered Illya to clean them up afterwards, though he usually preferred to take care of this himself. He was usually an attentive and caring Top, but tonight he hurt and besides, his audience would expect the Top to be the one waited upon, not doing the waiting. When at last Illya climbed into bed beside him and turned out the lights, Napoleon expected to drop off to sleep immediately, but found that he could not.

Possibly it was because of his awareness that others might still be listening in, or because he was in pain. He had disdained to ask for any medical care from the Soviets, whom he could hardly trust. It might also have been because he did not feel entirely secure in his possession of Illya. In a nation where it was considered good practice to place a lead seal on a sub's collar, lest they, or someone else, attempt to remove it without the Top's knowledge or permission, he could have no confidence that his lawful claim would be respected —especially not with a mere bit of black cloth standing in for his collar around Illya's neck.

Having Illya in his arms, however, was a profound comfort and so, once Napoleon had finally resigned himself to a sleepless night, he took that comfort and cherished it, all through the long hours of the night. They were wakened early, though not too early, by a knock at the door telling them that they had a message from UNCLE. A pair of seats had been booked for them on a non-stop flight from Moscow to New York, leaving at eleven thirty that morning.

This news so energized Napoleon that all the fatigue of his sleepless night seemed to vanish in an instant. He and Illya had plenty of time to shower, pack their things, and have breakfast in the commissary downstairs. It was necessary for Illya to kneel, leashed, at his Top's side and be fed his meal, but by now they were almost used to it and Napoleon had no trouble making sure Illya got enough to eat.

After that they caught a taxi to the airport, arriving with an hour to spare before their flight departed, as Napoleon would sooner spend the time waiting at the airport than at the guest house. Besides, he had something he wanted to deal with just now, and it was better not to be rushed.

Napoleon was dressed in one of his better suits, not wanting to draw the sort of attention he'd needed for the initial hearing. Illya still wore his flight jacket, the turtleneck Napoleon had brought for him, and a pair of jeans… and the black bandanna Napoleon had tied around his neck. It was not at all a proper collar, but it would be seen as one on the plane and on the streets of New York. Napoleon was of the opinion that it would be better to have it off beforehand —if Illya was amenable.

They were sitting in the departure lounge, as neutral and blandly appointed as most such spaces. Only a handful of other passengers had arrived so far and they were scattered about the oversized space. For the moment, he and Illya had something almost like privacy.

"Illya," he began, placing a hand on his partners arm to catch his attention. "I'd like to make a… proposal, in the more general sense of the word. By which I mean that if you don't like it then that's okay, and I'll drop it, for now."

"Very well," Illya replied with an amused smile. "What do you propose?"

"I've been thinking about when would be best to remove my, um, bandanna," Napoleon said carefully. He'd taken care never to refer to cloth he'd tied around Illya's neck as a collar, though he didn't really know how much of a difference it made. "I thought maybe it would be better to make it part of some other transition… such as, say, leaving a country, or going from a departure lounge to a plane."

"You mean, now," Illya said, clearly trying to hide his sudden uneasiness.

"The people on this plane most likely won't know who we are or pay much attention to us as we are now," Napoleon explained. "But if they see you get on the plane wearing that," he gestured at the cloth circling Illya's neck, "and then later see that you aren't wearing it… they will notice. Questions will be asked."

"And it would be better not to have it on when I arrive in New York," Illya said, thinking out loud.

"That was the conclusion I was coming to," said Napoleon.

Illya nodded, gazing down at where his hands were clasped over his knees. Napoleon reached one hand out to cover them. "Illya, if you don't want me to…"

"No," Illya said, lifting his head and drawing a long breath. "You are correct, as was I when I said I didn't want any Top's collar. I knew what I wanted then, and even if part of me isn't so sure now… that's not really me, and it's not going to be any easier if we wait until I'm sure."

Napoleon squeezed Illya's hands, hoping to communicate even one tenth of the affection and admiration he felt for him just now. "I do feel a little exposed here, though," Napoleon said, as they were sitting pretty much in the center of the lounge. He eyed a more secluded corner. "Let's relocate over there, yes?"

Illya agreed wholeheartedly, so they picked up their carry-on bags and crossed the lounge to an out of the way bank of chairs near the window, looking out onto the flight concourse. Their chairs were set perpendicular to the windows and Illya sat next to Napoleon but turned away, to look out at the taxiing planes. Napoleon laid both his hands on Illya's shoulders, leaning close to kiss the back of his neck. Illya bent his head in response and waited.

"You, Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin, are the man I love," Napoleon murmured into his ear as his fingers worked loose the knot in the bandanna. "The man who will not accept any Top's collar… even mine." The knot opened then and the band of cloth slipped away from Illya's neck. Napoleon pocketed it, promising himself that he would burn it later as a caution against future temptations.

Napoleon heard Illya swallow loudly as the bandanna left his neck and his body stiffened slightly, as though he was in pain. Gently, Napoleon pulled him into his embrace, cradling his head against his shoulder and stroking his hair. He did not think Illya actually wept, but probably came fairly close. They remained thus until their flight was announced. Then Illya lifted himself away from Napoleon's embrace, combed his fingers through his hair and told Napoleon he was all right.

He was all right enough; Napoleon gave him that much and they boarded the plane without incident. They both immersed themselves in the American newspapers and magazines the stewardess brought around once they'd taken off and after a few hours Illya fell asleep, head resting on Napoleon's shoulder. Napoleon thought he might sleep as well, considering how little he'd gotten the night before, but sleep continued to elude him. He woke Illya gently when the Statue of Liberty came into view below their windows and Illya gave him a brief smile so sad it was nearly heartbreaking.

Thus begins his exile, Napoleon thought, though Illya's features quickly returned to their usual enigmatic cast. UNCLE had sent a car and driver to meet them, which Napoleon appreciated. Waverly wanted to see them fresh off the plane, of course, but he was mercifully brief, content with their summary account of the events of their adventure on the far side of the Iron Curtain. Illya also made the official request that UNCLE assist him in applying for asylum from the Soviet Union and securing his US citizenship. His voice was utterly steady as he made this request, but Napoleon could see the little part of him that died inside when he spoke those words.

The old man let them go after that and then they both made a visit to medical where Napoleon got x-rays of his ribs and foot, neither of which, thankfully, were broken. These injuries tended to, Napoleon called a taxi to take both of them home but had it stop on the way to pick up a takeout meal of the most American food he could think of. The question of whether Illya would stay at Napoleon's place that night, or then next, or the next after that, was not even discussed. Once home, however, and the wonderfully smelling dinner of burgers and fried chicken, fries and coleslaw was laid out on the table, they both found that they were too tired and overwrought to have much appetite. They prodded each other into consuming enough for sustenance, then packed the rest of the food away and headed for the shower.

In the shower, having washed each other thoroughly, Illya wanted to suck Napoleon's cock. Too wrung out to say no, and hoping as well that it might help him sleep, Napoleon let him and let himself indulge in the pure pleasure of Illya's mouth on his cock. Illya came when Napoleon did and when he could stand Napoleon pulled him up to kiss him long and sweetly until the water began to run cold.

"My Illushka," Napoleon said, when they'd toweled each other dry and come to sit on the bed, arms entangled in a half embrace. "How are you doing?"

It was the first chance they'd had to speak frankly and truly privately in what seemed like years and Napoleon could see and feel Illya's body relax as the question reminded him of this.

"Honestly," Illya said, clearly treasuring the simple word and what it meant, "I'm feeling… a bit at sea. Or perhaps schizophrenic. I seem to possess two different sets of instincts now." He shook his head. "One of them will have to take the back seat eventually, but for the moment… everything is a bit unsettled. How about you?"

"I feel like I've just been on the front lines," Napoleon answered, the very act of putting words to his mental state helping him find clarity. "I remember feeling like this back in Korea, or more exactly, when I would come home on leave. Everything and everyone seemed to be expecting me to go back to how I was before, but I couldn't. I couldn't seem to leave the war behind."

Illya leaned into him and Napoleon responded, wrapping Illya in his arms and holding him close. "This is going to take a while," Illya said, not with dismay, but with the knowing patience he possessed and which Napoleon very much admired.

"Luckily, Waverly's given us a whole week off," Napoleon said, still somewhat astonished at this bit of unaccustomed largess from their boss.

"Yes, and I intend to spend at least half of it sleeping," Illya announced with a jaw-cracking yawn. It inspired a similar impulse in Napoleon and this inspired them both to crawl into the bed and under the covers. They kissed each other goodnight, turned off the lights and then rolled to lie spooned together, Illya ensconced in Napoleon's arms. It was, on the one hand, something they'd done hundreds of times before and therefore utterly unremarkable, and yet, on the other, nearly miraculous.

Their last sleep together had been in the highly bugged foreigners' guest house in Moscow, and the one before that had been in a drafty stairwell in an abandoned building in the middle of an irradiated Soviet industrial park on the borders of Kazakhstan. Such abrupt transitions were commonplace in their line of work, of course, but this one seemed even more so. Illya, enclosed in the comfort of Napoleon's arms had dropped off to sleep instantly, but Napoleon was still wakeful, his mind kept restless by the miraculous nature of the commonplace.

Mental state notwithstanding, however, Napoleon had gone too long without sleep. Between the physical and psychological comforts of his own bed and partner, and the remaining traces of post-coital pleasure, the part of him unwilling to cease in its vigilance was finally overwhelmed and released Napoleon into slumber at last.

***

He was looking up at Illya at the top of the fire escape again. There was no sign of Reznikov's man now. It was just the two of them in this empty, poisoned city, and the ancient, rusted fire escape, groaning and shuddering under Illya's slight weight. There seemed no reason for Illya to be up there now, though. Napoleon started to call for him to come down, but when he tried to speak… nothing happened.

His voice seemed frozen in his throat and yet he had to get Illya to come down. He would have to climb up to him. Napoleon began to mount the creaking stairs, taking hold of the rusted railings as he climbed, but something about the railings felt strange. He looked at his hands, expecting to find them coated with red-brown rust powder and they were, and yet… it was more than a mere coating. His hands were rusting too —the corrosion etching deep into his fingers where bits were already flaking off.

By the inexplicable logic of dreams, this seemed only a puzzling inconvenience. Napoleon still needed to get to Illya and so continued to climb. He no longer had a hold on the railings, however, as gripping the iron bars caused his fingers and hands to crumble away… and the rusty infection seemed to be spreading with alarming rapidity up his arms. And not only there. Napoleon stumbled as he climbed, then became aware that his feet and legs had become likewise afflicted.

His knee joint seemed to freeze, then cracked and bent in a way it really shouldn't. He kept on climbing. Illya needed him… or perhaps he needed Illya, but he dared not stop in any case. He stumbled again, saw that one of his feet had crumbled away to nothing, fell and caught himself on the corroded stumps of his arms. Prone on the stairs now, he felt the transformation take hold of his whole body, rendering him rigid, fragile, and then eating him away.

Napoleon looked up at his partner once more to find him farther away than ever, impossibly high above him. He felt his neck creak and rasp, rusty flakes crumbling away as he tilted his head back. He knew now why he couldn't speak, for the rust had invaded his vocal chords. His desire to reach his partner seemed to have made some impact, however, for now he saw Illya looking down at him from above. For one moment their eyes met, Illya's sorrowful and his own, Napoleon imagined, already clouding over with rust. Then, with a sudden, loud groan, the iron platform under Illya gave way and he, along with the whole structure, began to fall.

In a cataclysm of rusty clangs and crashes, the entire fire escape collapsed in corroded fragments onto Napoleon, but there was nothing of him left anymore, for he, too, had become no more than fragments and powdered rust, scattered by the wind.

 

Napoleon woke with a gasp of horror, heart pounding and skin clammy with sweat.

He was sitting up in his own bed, bedclothes clutched desperately in fingers which he peered at closely in the faint light from outside the curtained window. Normal flesh and bone fingers were what he saw, to his great relief, and he swallowed hard, seeking to put the sense that they had ever been anything else behind him. Seeing as he'd had this same dream several nights now, that was not such an easy thing.

Sleep had continued to be problematic for him since returning from the Soviet Union last week, but the nightmares had begun several days ago. He had not yet spoken about them in his obligatory visits to the UNCLE shrink. As Section Two head, he'd had to sign on to the necessity of such things, but thought that, in his case, they were of little use. He'd learned in these little sessions, for instance, that his insomnia and general high strung feelings were called 'hyper vigilance' and were common among soldiers returning from heavy combat, but he didn't see where this helped him get over it. He refrained from complaining about his own mandatory sessions, however, because Illya had them too and he was sure that Illya did need… something. 

They were on leave and could do as they wished, but he'd never known Illya to spend so much of his day sleeping. It was as if he was making up for the sleep Napoleon wasn't getting. Furthermore, he seemed to have a hard time keeping focus on anything. This, from his normally razor sharp partner, troubled Napoleon deeply.

What had downright frightened Napoleon a few days ago, was what Illya had said as they were unpacking all of Illya's personal belongings which had been packed up prior to his departure. The UNCLE movers hadn't even gotten around to putting Illya's furniture in storage yet —which Napoleon thought was testimony to just how sure everyone at UNCLE had been that he would be bringing Illya back. All that remained to be done to move Illya back in was rebuild the brick-and-board bookshelves, rewire the stereo and unpack all the books and records.

Illya seemed to have little or no appetite for the task, however. He would open various boxes, removing a few items and then gazing at them, seeming to not recognize them, or to have no idea what he was going to do with them. Finally, Napoleon had to ask him what the matter was.

"I… I don't think I can do this, Napoleon," he'd answered with a sigh.

"Do what?" Napoleon had asked, trying not to let the alarm he felt show in his voice.

"Go back to my old life," Illya said, "as if nothing had ever happened; as if I had never learned how I can live as another man's possession… and like it."

"Illya, that's not what happened. You know that," Napoleon interjected, but Illya shook his head.

"This place was my first really free home, you know," Illya said. "Even my student lodgings in Cambridge were bugged, but here I could live in complete privacy, for the first time in my life. I could keep my own hours, buy whatever music or literature I liked, and come back to a place that was mine and mine alone, where I always felt safe." Illya stood now and gestured at the chaotic space around him.

"Now, I can barely stand even the idea of spending a night here alone… without you." The look Illya gave Napoleon then was almost despairing… and almost accusing. It felt like a touch of ice to his heart.

"It'll take time, Illya," Napoleon tried to assure him, reaching out to take his hand. "You said so yourself, that it would take a while."

Illya took Napoleon's hand reluctantly at first and Napoleon could feel him fighting the neediness that had dogged him since their return. He succumbed to it after a moment, however, falling into Napoleon's arms with a sigh.

"What if time isn't enough?" he'd asked into Napoleon's shoulder. "What if they broke me?" And that was the question that chilled Napoleon to the bone, because if Illya Kuryakin _was broken_ , he knew who'd done it, and it wasn't the Soviets.

Of course he'd had only the best of intentions when he'd taken Illya down so hard and so far, but had he actually, as the old wartime adage went, 'destroyed the village in order to save it'? This was the thought that engendered yet another wave of cold sweat as Napoleon scrubbed at his face and tried to will away the dread of the dream and the worries that came in its wake. Beside him, he felt Illya stir, wakened and no doubt troubled by Napoleon's recurring nightmares.

Illya said nothing at first, but drew Napoleon into his arms and stilled his shaking. Memories of cold, corroding metal faded in the warmth and strength of his partner's embrace and Napoleon felt his body begin to relax at last.

"The same one again?" Illya asked, for he had made Napoleon tell him, after the first time, what the dream had entailed. "This is the third time, yes?" he asked when Napoleon nodded. "I think you ought to tell Dr Elsberg about it."

"I told you about it so I wouldn't have to tell him," Napoleon said, relieved to note that, while his voice sounded rough, at least his throat wasn't actually rusted shut.

"I'm not a professional psychologist, Napoleon," Illya admonished. "There is a reason UNCLE keeps one in their employ."

"I trust you more than I trust him," Napoleon said matter-of-factly. "I don't feel… safe with him the way I do with you."

"You are very sweet to say so," Illya said kissing his ear, "and I have no doubt that it's true, since the same goes for me… but I don't know how I can help you… I don't even know how I can help myself."

Even as Napoleon winced inwardly at the near despair he heard in Illya's voice, an answer came to him —one too mad, too terrifying to contemplate long, but one that he had to voice now, before he lost his nerve.

"You could Top me, Illya," he said, barely speaking the words aloud. "I… I think that may be what I need right now."

Illya's first response was to draw himself upright, loosening his hold on Napoleon. The notion seemed entirely unexpected and Illya's brow furrowed as he chewed it over.

"I… I'm not sure…" he began after many long seconds, and Napoleon felt his heart plummet.

"Never mind," Napoleon stepped in hurriedly. "It was just…" But he didn't quite know what it 'just' was... Then he felt Illya's hand on his arm, the grasp firm, demanding his attention.

"No," Illya said now, mouth forming a determined line. "No. I have not forgotten. I made a promise. I promised you I would Top you whenever you needed it and it doesn't matter what else has happened to me; I will not be a man who does not keep his promises."

"Illya…" Napoleon began, shocked to hear his voice breaking.

"Hush now, Napasha," Illya drew him back in close, stroking his head calmingly. "Now I've got you. I've got you and I'll give you what you need. And who knows? You may have saved us both."


	2. Chapter 2

Since it was only a little past four in the morning, Illya insisted that they return to bed, though now it was Illya curled around Napoleon rather than the way it had been the last week or so. This alone made an enormous impact on Napoleon's 'hyper-vigilance' and he actually slept dreamlessly until Illya woke him at around nine o'clock. This was noticeably earlier than Illya had risen the last few days, which Napoleon took as a heartening sign. It was also very heartening indeed to see the devilish gleam return to Illya's eyes as he looked Napoleon over upon rising.

"I've been lying here thinking, all morning," Illya said, looking at Napoleon the way he was inclined to look at a hot meal. "We will discuss some of these idea over breakfast, but first, a shower."

Napoleon was looking forward to washing away the remains of last night's terrified sweat, but Illya began by asking Napoleon for his safe word, signaling that he was now the Top and Napoleon the sub. Then he insisted on doing all the work in the shower, ordering Napoleon to turn this way and that as Illya applied the soap and washcloth, then to stand under the spray to be rinsed. Napoleon told himself that he'd asked for this, plus a whole host of other things which he might or might not expect or like, but it unsettled him, nonetheless.

Illya insisted on drying him after the shower, then bent him over and prepared him to be fucked, lubing and stretching his entrance. Napoleon naturally expected to be fucked right then, but instead Illya led him to the bedroom and requested a blow job. He also told Napoleon that he was not allowed to come, which Napoleon had more or less expected.

The whole business left Napoleon feeling oddly off balance. He hardly minded sucking Illya's cock, but being told when and how was more off-putting than he'd have thought, and he began to wonder whether this was such a good idea after all. His sense of resentment deepened when Illya forbade him to dress.

Illya turned up the thermostat obligingly, though it was a mild spring day and looked to be fairly warm later on. It was the disruption of his usual routine and comforts that Napoleon resisted, so much so that he was actually surprised at himself. Illya seemed not to be surprised, however, and led Napoleon by the hand to sit on the living-room sofa.

"I would like you to stay here and not speak while I prepare breakfast," Illya said. "You will come and kneel at the table for me to feed you when I tell you it is ready."

"Of course," Napoleon murmured, shocked at how surly he sounded. Illya did not let this pass, but reached out to take Napoleon by the chin, lifting his eyes to meet his own.

"My poor Napasha," he said, shaking his head with dismay. "This is usually much easier for you and you are usually a much more obedient sub, but I suppose I should not be surprised. I'm afraid today will be difficult for you and you will think I am being petty, making you endure many of the same things you made me endure. But you know, in your heart of hearts, that this is what you need. So, you will obey me or you will be punished. Those will be the only choices you have today."

Illya released him then and Napoleon nodded, suddenly ashamed. "Hush now, Napasha," Illya comforted when he saw Napoleon's downcast look. "There is no shame in struggling with a difficult task. The only shame is giving up, which I know you will never do."

Napoleon nodded again, resigned now rather than ashamed. He waited obediently on the sofa, remembering to be grateful that at least Illya hadn't blindfolded him. In truth, he ought to be very grateful indeed, seeing as how every part of the kitchen was visible from where he sat and Illya, wearing only a pair of skin-tight faded blue jeans, presented a veritable banquet for the eyes. Illya Kuryakin was the very embodiment of the expression 'poetry in motion,' even when engaged in a task as mundane as fixing breakfast.

Just watching Illya's back as he moved about the kitchen served to shake Napoleon out of his sulk and even put him in something like the proper state of mind for being fed his breakfast while perched on a kneeling bench. Worshiping Illya's body as a Top was subtly different from worshipping it as a sub, however, and easier when he was merely watching for watching's sake and not anticipating his next bite of food.

"I can see you are really trying," Illya said about halfway through, setting down his fork to stroke Napoleon's hair gently. "But I would like you to try something more. Close your eyes for me, Napasha. Just let things happen. Do you think you can do that?"

Napoleon had to swallow hard then, though there was not a trace of food in his mouth. The very idea terrified him, but there was no way he could refuse such a request. He nodded in compliance and slowly shut his eyes.

The first thing he felt was Illya's lips on his forehead, placed there like a benediction. Illya was pleased, and Napoleon liked pleasing Illya. He felt himself begin to relax. His nose caught the scent of an approaching bit of bacon which he opened his mouth to receive. A little while later there came a bite of eggs, then some toast.

Napoleon realized after a little while that it wasn't just the smell which tipped him off to each bite as it came. He could sense Illya's movements and knew when the fork was on the plate, when it was moving toward Illya or whether it was moving towards him. They worked in such harmony so often, but always in the midst of some firefight or other fraught occasion. He had never thought about what it meant nor how it might be applied in circumstances other than desperate ones.

It was in the field and on missions that Napoleon and Illya had first forged this connection and came to put it to use, but surely it influenced how well they 'played' together too. Being _with_ Illya was comforting; being aware of him was like being aware of his own heart. _'Two heads; one heart.'_ Napoleon had heard this expression often used to describe couples whose dynamics meshed perfectly. In his and Illya's case, Napoleon preferred to think in terms of, _'one car; two drivers.'_ He'd been doing the driving for some time now, Napoleon realized, and maybe it would be okay to let Illya take control for a little while.

He sort of drifted through breakfast after that, losing himself in the rhythm of Illya's eating and feeding him. He knew, as clearly as if he'd seen it, when the last bit of eggs and toast vanished into Illya's mouth and felt no concern about what would come next. Illya would take care of it.

"That's more like it, my Napasha. I knew you could do it," Illya said, gently stroking Napoleon's cheek. "It's better now, isn't it?" Napoleon nodded, basking in the compliment.

"Now I would like you to keep your eyes closed for a few minutes more," Illya said, "while I make some arrangements." Napoleon nodded again, content to remain as he was. Illya stood to clear away the breakfast dishes, then could be heard moving around the apartment. A moment later Napoleon thought he heard the sound of the living room carpet being shifted, then Illya was at his side again.

"Stand please," Illya said and promptly took away the kneeling bench when he did. Illya took a moment or two fooling with things in the living room, then returned to lead Napoleon back to the kneeling bench in its new location. He knelt again with Illya's guidance, then there was the faint clinking of chains and the sensation of a leather cuff being fastened around his right ankle.

"You may open your eyes now," Illya said, and Napoleon obeyed. He glanced down at his leg first, naturally, and saw that he was indeed chained by one ankle to one of the recessed metal tie points in the wooden floor, usually covered by the carpet. The kneeling bench was also similarly affixed and Illya was rummaging for something in one of Napoleon's desk drawers.

"Seeing as I was not entirely prepared for your request last night," Illya explained, "I find that I need to go out, to buy a few things and do a little research. Of course, it goes without saying that I trust you to stay here if I tell you to, but this is not about trust. This is about reducing your options. I also trust you not to remove your restraints, but I mean for you not to have any choice in the matter. Locking you in would not be safe, however, so I find that I must resort to techniques used by my old Soviet masters."

Now Napoleon could see that the items Illya had taken from his desk were a stick of sealing wax and a lighter. Admonishing Napoleon not to move, lest he be burned by dripping wax, Illya sealed closed the hasp where a lock would normally go on the ankle cuff. Without it, Napoleon might well have unfastened the cuff, done what he liked and returned before Illya came home, leaving Illya none the wiser. Now this option had indeed been taken away. Napoleon felt a mix of admiration and annoyance at this turn of events.

"I'm not sure how long I will be," Illya now explained, putting away the sealing wax and fetching a couple of books from the side table. "Possibly as much as three hours or so. I don't wish you to be too bored, so you may read, but no news or current events. No television or radio, for the same reason, I'm afraid." Both were within Napoleon's reach, but the electrical outlet, where Illya was just now unplugging these devices, was not.

"You do not, naturally, have permission to play with my toys," Illya indicated Napoleon's cock, currently only showing some slight interest in the proceedings, "and obviously if you do, there will be evidence." Napoleon nodded again with a resigned sigh, not that he'd intended to do anything of the sort, but that Illya had taken yet another choice away from him.

"You are, of course, free to sit or stand or move about, as far as you are able, and if you wish to lie down…" Illya added as an after thought, then picked up a couple of the sofa cushions —which were just out of Napoleon's reach— and laid them on the floor next to the kneeling bench. "If you wish to lie down, you may do so here. Have you any questions?"

Napoleon started to shake his head, then asked, "And if I need to pee?"

"Do you need to now?" Illya asked, and it occurred to Napoleon that Illya had carefully given him only a few sips of coffee at breakfast. He shook his head.

"If you have an urgent need," Illya said, fetching an empty beer bottle from the trash, "you may use this."

"Thanks," Napoleon said, honestly trying to sound more grateful than sarcastic. Illya gave him a look, but let it pass.

"I'll be picking up lunch on the way back," he said. "Any requests? I recommend something light."

The freedom to choose anything now seemed like an enormous privilege already, so Napoleon thought about his choice carefully before speaking. "How about an order of Kwan's hot and sour soup with a side of egg rolls?"

"Excellent choice," Illya praised him. "Now I suppose I'd better get dressed… oh wait. I knew I was forgetting something. I was going to fuck you. On the cushions please, on your hands and knees."

 _Blindsided again,_ Napoleon thought dazedly as he got into position. He'd also forgotten how Illya had prepared him before breakfast, but now he remembered the slick fingers pushing into him after their shower. The sound of Illya unzipping his jeans had Napoleon's cock up and ready for business in an instant.

"Very nice," Illya said as he dropped down behind Napoleon, "but you know you will have to wait till later this evening for your pleasure."

"I know," Napoleon said with resignation, then gasped as Illya thrust into him.

"Good things come to subs who wait," Illya said, voice strained as he held himself still, giving Napoleon's body a moment to adjust. When that moment had passed Illya commenced fucking him in an almost businesslike way, both hands gripping Napoleon's hips firmly.

"Oh… my Napasha," he moaned softly, slowing his rhythm and deepening his thrusts. "No one else knows you like this… no one else can use you like this… can they?"

"No," Napoleon gasped, trying to push back, take Illya's cock even deeper. "No one but you, Illya… No one…"

"Mine!" Illya growled in response, leaning forward to bite Napoleon on the shoulder. Napoleon cried out wordlessly, using every ounce of will he had to hold back his own climax. Not so constrained, Illya thrust into him rapidly a few more times, then came with a loud groan, sighing in deep contentment when his climax finally abated.

"You are so very good, my Napasha," he said when he finally withdrew, giving Napoleon's sensitized nipple a hard pinch as he did so. Napoleon gasped, then collapsed onto the cushions, both aroused and aching. Illya knelt beside him, gazing over his prone form for a few moments, then gently stroked his arm before extracting something from his hip pocket.

"This will likely make your wait a bit more interesting," he said and Napoleon felt a plug, one of his larger ones, push its way inside him. "Naturally, I will want to see this just where I left it when I get back." Napoleon nodded, afraid that if he opened his mouth to speak he would end up whimpering.

Illya removed himself to the bedroom to dress after that. Napoleon was still curled up on the cushions when he returned to bid Napoleon farewell for the moment. He was wearing something like his normal work clothes of slacks, white shirt and a necktie. While this outfit had never seemed particularly Toppy to Napoleon before, it most certainly did now.

"Promise you'll be good while I'm gone," Illya said, bending down to stroke him like a cat.

"I promise," Napoleon said, the words coming without thought. It still shocked him how easily and thoroughly he could transform to this side of his dynamic when he subbed for Illya.

Illya departed then, after one final kiss to Napoleon's cheek. Napoleon remained where he was for some time, thinking he might nap for a bit, curled up like a cat on the cushions. His thoughts never quite dropped down to the level of sleep however, moving instead with almost dreamlike randomness through his consciousness.

He dwelt happily on the recent memory of how nice it had felt when Illya was fucking him and how pleasant it was think about the part of Illya that was still inside him. It made him think of how pleasant it also was to take Illya's cock in his mouth and how surprisingly good it was to let Illya use him in these ways. This led him to wonder what other uses Illya would have for him tonight and how soon he would be back.

Napoleon's thoughts now skipped back to breakfast and how peaceful if had been to surrender himself to Illya's will. Allowing Illya to take total control had allowed him to let go of the heavy and constraining armor of personal discipline he wore every day. With Illya away though, he felt like a snail out of its shell: vulnerable and helpless.

Was this what was behind Illya's recent spate of neediness? Napoleon knew that Illya fought his submission because he found it too easy, seductive and compelling. Napoleon fought his submission because it terrified him… but were these not merely two sides of the same coin? Letting go of his Dominance terrified him mainly because he had to surrender himself _to_ someone else. Illya was the only person he'd ever met who he trusted enough to surrender himself to, but it still left him entirely dependent. Surrender was alluring in its danger, and dangerous in its allure —these were the two sides of the coin he and Illya traded in.

Without trust, Napoleon would be tempted to believe Illya guilty of petty revenge but, as Illya had told him, Napoleon knew, in his heart, that this was what he needed and what he'd asked for. Trust meant that he could ask Illya for something and have no idea what exactly it would entail, but still know that he would not regret it. He might, along the way, be annoyed, puzzled, even frustrated, but he knew that it would all be to some purpose, to his benefit.

Paradoxically, he trusted Illya to not to trust him, or at least to act as though he was not trusted. To be trusted, after all, was to carry the weight of that trust and to be constantly vigilant that the trust placed in one was not broken. Somehow, this thought put Napoleon in mind of his dream again, remembering the great weight of the fire escape crashing down on him, and how he'd become so fragile and brittle that it had destroyed him… and Illya as well. He shuddered at the memory and found that he had lost all interest in sleeping again. Restless, he sat up and immediately felt the plug inside him, prodding him internally and not altogether comfortably. He shifted again and found himself constrained by the chain at his ankle.

Grumbling in frustration, Napoleon pushed himself up off the cushions and settled on the kneeling bench. It felt foolish to perch thus when no one was there to command it or to see him, but it was the most comfortable out of the few options Illya had left him. It was a forceful reminder that the burden of trust was no longer his to bear. It was also a reminder that shedding that burden, heavy though it might be, was no easy thing.

If he were free to do as he wished now, Napoleon would probably put some clothes on and go sit on the sofa to read the paper. He'd probably take the butt plug out too, but what would that get him? Already, even the task of choosing his wardrobe seemed overly burdensome, and reading the paper only meant seeing something of the work they lay ahead of them at UNCLE. Removing the plug, however, would mean disregarding Illya's gift and that he could not bring himself to do. Napoleon lowered his head into his hands, feeling suddenly exhausted down to his soul. How Illya could seemingly cast aside his responsibilities so easily, Napoleon had no clue. It seemed that he could not bear to continue with his normal daily duties, yet could not bear letting them go.

It was out of purest desperation that he finally took a look at the books Illya had left for him. On top was a paperback detective thriller, which struck Napoleon as being too much like his day job. Then there was a coffee table book of French Impressionists from the Metropolitan Museum of Art, which Napoleon knew wouldn't hold his attention. Under that was a Book Club double edition of H.G. Wells The Time Machine and War of the Worlds. This was published cleverly so that each of the novels had a 'front' cover, depending on which way you held the book.

Napoleon remembered devouring both of these classics as a boy and closed his eyes to turn the book over in his hands, enough times that he no longer knew which title was up. He opened his eyes then to see that he had The War of the Worlds, then commenced reading. At first the tale pulled him in, as it always had, but before long Napoleon found himself wondering what Illya would think of this tale, if he'd ever read it, or what the two of them would do if they ever found themselves in a similar situation.  
It seemed that he could not manage even such simple distractions as reading an adventure novel without thinking of Illya, so profound was his dependance. 

How had Illya managed three whole weeks on his own? Napoleon wondered as he laid the book down. Illya had finally told him some of what he'd endured during that time, trying to convince Napoleon that it hadn't been as bad as it might have been. He'd only been used sexually twice, though both occasions were part of a scene which had begun with Reznikov viciously flogging some other slender, blonde-headed male sub before using Illya. It made Reznikov's intentions crystal clear, however and Napoleon could well see how it had fueled Illya's determination to take that last step off the edge of the fire escape.

It was not those unpleasant occasions with all their violent portent that Illya had found the hardest to endure, however. Nor had it been the countless times he'd been ordered to stand still for hours at a time while wearing little more than a harness and codpiece, serving as 'decoration' at one of Reznikov's social occasions. Regulations regarding State supervised subs prevented Illya from being punished without cause, required that he be back in the submissive barracks by midnight and forbade his being requested to serve before eight a.m. No, Illya had claimed, the worst of it had been the countless hours of forced idleness.

When he was not in service to Reznikov or one of his cronies, Illya was confined to the submissive barracks. He hadn't even been given menial work in the KGB labs because, he'd been told, his loyalty would be suspect until Napoleon's claim of propriety over him had been settled. Instead, Illya had spent day after day with nothing to do except stare out the tiny window of his cubicle and wait for Napoleon. The other subs in the barracks hadn't wanted anything to do with him because they knew he'd been living on his own —in America, yet— and despised him for the privilege he'd been allowed. Napoleon had heard all this and assumed that Illya was trying to convince him that he had not suffered as badly as Napoleon had feared. Now Napoleon realized that he had no idea of how Illya had really suffered nor how he had endured.

"The thing about being forced to do nothing for days on end," Illya had explained to him, "is that when you are finally told to do something, you are so grateful for any occupation that you will do _anything_ you are told to do."

Restless again, Napoleon stood with an anxious sigh and stepped as close to the window as his chain would let him. Standing where he was, few if any of the neighbors would be able to see him, but Napoleon was able to look out over the rooftops of New York, watch flocks of pigeons wheeling over the city, see the play of clouds and sun on this windy spring day. It was far more than Illya had had, and even so Napoleon did not think he could bear much more than a few hours of this confinement.

The strength and endurance his partner possessed had always impressed Napoleon, but never so much as now. Now that admiration was mixed with an almost crippling longing, made worse by the fact that Illya had also moved all the clocks in Napoleon's flat so that none of them could be seen from where he was confined. Napoleon had no idea how much time had passed since Illya had left, but he was sure that he could not endure a minute more. Luckily, it was about then that Napoleon finally heard the welcome sound of a key unlocking his door.

*^*^*^*


	3. Chapter 3

Illya looked a bit windblown and rosy cheeked and he had his arms full of chinese takeout, the delicious odors accompanying him like a cloak. Napoleon stood at the limits of his chain, watching as Illya unencumbered himself of the various bags and food containers, too full of relief and other, less definable things, for words. When Illya turned to greet him, a broad smile and words of praise on his lips, Napoleon astonished himself with his response.

Napoleon was no more aware of his knees' intention to give way than he was of his lungs' intention to draw breath. In a gesture as fundamental as breathing, Napoleon dropped to kneel before his Top, leaning forward to lay his face against Illya's thigh and sighed with heartfelt relief and devotion.

It seemed that Illya was as surprised by the gesture as Napoleon had been. He drew a sudden breath, laying gentle hands on Napoleon to calm him. "Sshhhh, Napasha, hush now," he said softly. "I'm here; I'm not going anywhere now. I've got you. I'll take care of you."

Napoleon gave a muffled sob at those last words because, dear God, yes, he so very much needed to hear that someone _else_ would take care of him now. Illya's hands stroked his hair, his back, grounding him and assuring him of Illya's presence. Pressing his face into his Top's warmth, Napoleon felt a certain hardness beneath the fabric of Illya's trousers and was drawn to it, nuzzling its length. He noticed Illya's posture become slightly more alert.

"Found something of interest, have you?" Illya asked. "Well, I suppose there's no harm in a little before-lunch appetizer."

Napoleon smiled and hummed in contented anticipation, letting Illya guide him up and back over to the kneeling bench. His cock was rising even as he knelt and came to full attention when Illya opened his fly and ordered him to hold his hands behind his back. Napoleon could not say quite why it was so arousing that Illya didn't even unfasten his belt, merely letting his cock emerge, erect and enticing, through his open fly. Napoleon opened his mouth, helplessly eager for whatever Illya wished to give him.

What Illya wished to give him, it seemed, was a hard face-fucking. Both his Top's large, strong hands captured his head and held it fast while he thrust his cock deep down Napoleon's throat again and again. Napoleon gagged more than once at the start so that tears were rolling down his cheeks, but he got the trick of opening and relaxing his throat soon enough. Then it was just the pure pleasure of letting his Top use him, of being a receptacle for his desire and nothing more.

"Yes!" Illya panted as he took Napoleon's mouth. "Yes, take it; take my cock, my Napasha… _My_ Napasha… All mine… Only mine…" His words disintegrated into harsh and wordless cries and Napoleon knew that both of them were now stripped of everything save their most fundamental dynamic nature. There was a perfect pleasure in such moments, whether one was Top or sub and Napoleon savored this one, as perfect as any he'd known.

"Close your eyes!" came the sudden command from his Top. "Close them now!" Napoleon complied, instantly and without anticipation, still completely in the moment even as he felt Illya's cock withdrawn from his mouth. Then came the warm spatters on his face, simultaneous with Illya's panting shouts of climax and Napoleon himself groaned with both delight and agony as he restrained his own completion.

Illya's hands were still clutching his head, now seeming to support some of Illya's weight as his Top continued to breathe heavily, recovering from his orgasm. "Keep your eyes closed for a moment please," he said finally as he released Napoleon's head from his grip. Napoleon could hear him walk down the hall, presumably to the bathroom, then heard him return and felt a warm, moist washcloth on his face.

"My beautiful, perfect sub," Illya murmured as he cleaned away cum and tears. "My Napasha… No one could please me as you do… No one." The kiss that followed came as naturally as breathing —deep and wet and penetrating. Napoleon opened to Illya's mouth as he had opened to his cock, taking when demanded and giving upon request.

"You may open your eyes now," Illya said, smiling as he withdrew from the kiss. "You'll find it much easier to find your soup that way."

In a way, Napoleon thought it a shame to lose all the flavors of Illya which currently resided in his mouth, but the scents of the food Illya had brought in reminded him that he was hungry too. He opened his eyes to see Illya kneeling beside him, breaking the seal on his ankle cuff and opening it to release him. The absence of the restraint left Napoleon feeling a little bereft and once again he found himself unable to express what he felt in words.

He leaned forward to lay his head on Illya's arm instead and Illya, for a wonder, seemed to get it. He remained at Napoleon's side for a moment, letting him rest there in a loose embrace. "You will be restrained again soon enough," he offered. "Have no fear. You must nourish yourself before we play any further, however, and there are… practical issues to consider for eating soup, which is why I shall not be feeding you." Illya smiled at this and Napoleon could not help responding in kind. Illya stood then and took Napoleon's hand to pull him upright as well. "Perhaps," Illya considered, "I may insist on another sort of restraint… I think being told not to speak will please you, won't it?"

Surprised with just how much this suggestion pleased him, Napoleon nodded. Illya kissed him affectionately in reply.

"Very well, you shall not speak until I give you leave. You may, of course, make whatever sounds you feel inspired to make and you may say your safe word if you feel the need." Napoleon nodded again, feeling himself shed yet another layer of tension. Every new restraint meant one more thing that he could no longer be responsible for, one more burden lifted away.

Lunch was not silent as Illya conversed easily with his silent sub, mentioning that he'd seen Dr. Theremin at the Sub-Station, that he had a fine new collar and seemed quite happy in his new life. Other news and information about various doings in their neighborhood filled the spaces between the soup and egg-rolls and the occasional gestured requests for the soy sauce. Soon enough lunch was finished and Illya was clearing away the dishes. In all his conversing, Illya had not given one hint about what he had planned for Napoleon after lunch.

"I hope you will not consider me too unoriginal," Illya said now, "if I send you off to have a bath next. You will not have enough time to fall asleep, I think, but it is necessary for you to be as relaxed as possible, to have a few minutes for lunch to settle, and for me to prepare a few things."

Napoleon saw the sense of this and nodded his agreement. He could not restrain his sigh of regret when Illya removed the butt plug in preparation for his bath, but did not doubt, either, that Illya would make good on his promise to give him even greater satisfaction on that front soon enough. Napoleon settled into the piping hot bathwater, content in the assurance that he would be cared for, used or pleasured at his Top's whim. At that moment, there was absolutely nothing more that he could possibly want.

*^*^*^*^*

 

Illya had hit upon the idea as he dozed, half awake during the early morning hours. The more he thought about it, the more it seemed exactly what Napoleon needed, and what he needed too, but it was something he had no experience with, either giving or receiving. He did know that he would need to take a great deal of care, hence his need to venture out for 'research.' The business about leaving Napoleon alone, chained to his kneeling bench had been a necessity to allow for this, though it had worked to much greater effect than Illya had expected. Happily, his visit to the Sub-Station had also proven fruitful.

A long time faithful customer, Illya had come to trust the staff there, especially the proprietor, Edward, who was a switch like Illya. Older than Illya by several years, he was a veritable font of experiences from both ends of the dynamic. Illya figured that Edward could at least tell Illya if his hands were too big for what he had in mind. Finding Leon there was a fortunate bonus, providing a second opinion, which Illya very much appreciated.

It was very good to see Leon again as well. His old mentor had embraced him warmly, expressing profound regret for what Illya and Napoleon had been forced to endure as a result of his departure from the Soviet Union. Illya had assured him that everything had worked out for the best in the end, drawing his friend's attention to the absence of a Soviet collar around his neck. Theremin had congratulated Illya on his newly won freedom and Illya had returned the congratulations to Leon for his new collar —not a Soviet one but clearly something purchased with great care and no small expense by Clara Rockmore.

Both Leon and Edward had plenty of advice for Illya, but both assured him that, if he proceeded with care, there was no reason why he could not carry out his plans —large hands notwithstanding. They did advise him that he would need a lot of lube, but fortunately the Sub-Station carried a small selection of basic supplies, such as condoms, lube, gloves, and whatnot. Illya bought the largest bottle they had.

He'd left the Sub-Station full of Toppy confidence and keen anticipation of the various things he planned to do to Napoleon. Returning home to have his submissive drop to his knees in obeisance nearly unmanned him, however. For a fraction of a second it seemed too much —too much responsibility, too much to see the proud, Alpha Top abase himself before Illya. There was also, however, a heady thrill in seeing such a demonstration of his power over his sub, which recalled to Illya the true pleasure he'd taken in Topping all his life. Strange though it might seem on another day, this was where they both belonged at the moment and Illya felt the rightness of it down to his bones.

He had taken his sub then, as was his right and due, and felt himself settle truly into his role. All the hesitence he'd felt at the idea of leaving his submissive self behind were gone, much to his profound relief, and the fierce, proprietary joy he'd taken at coming on Napoleon's face told him without a doubt, that his Dominant self was alive and well. This was a very good thing, for the task he'd set for himself would require the utmost Dominance from him. Napoleon needed nothing less and Illya was pledged to give his sub everything he needed.

Once he'd settle Napoleon into his bath, Illya set to work preparing everything he would need for the scene to come in Napoleon's bedroom. First he needed to hang the sling, then he had to find and lay out all the toys and tools he planned on using. Luckily he was, by now, more than familiar with the contents of Napoleon's toy closet. He finished with a bit of mood enhancement, setting candles all around the room and extinguishing all the electric lights. The room was certainly dimmer, but Illya figured that there were enough candles to provide light for what he had in mind.

The changed atmosphere of the bedroom certainly seemed effective for Napoleon, who paused at the threshold as Illya led him into the room. He looked around with surprise, then smiled contentedly at Illya, communicating his approval the only way he was allowed. He settled compliantly into the sling at Illya's guidance and Illya secured his wrists to the chains that held the upper corners of the sling. Illya fastened a set of thigh-cuffs in his sub next, and bound them, splayed open, to the lower pair of chains. A pair of ankle-cuffs attached to the thigh-cuffs held his lower legs immobile.

His sub thoroughly secured, Illya stood back to admire his handiwork in the light of several dozen candles. Napoleon was suspended about a foot or so over the bed, spread-eagled in the sling. His hands were secured high above his head on the chains suspending the sling and his legs held open below. The candle-light caressed the planes of his sub's body, painting him in flickering, amber light and shadow. Viewing this delectable scene, Illya felt a warm flush of Toppy arousal course through him. He'd removed his necktie while setting the room up and now he unbuttoned his shirt.

He'd purposely left the toys he'd planned to use out of Napoleon's sight when he entered the room, but now, with his field of vision restricted, Illya knew he would not be able to see the dresser top where he'd laid everything out. He removed the cloth that had covered them now and picked up the large bottle of lube. Napoleon was indeed quite relaxed after his bath and opened readily to Illya's fingers as he lubed his entrance generously. Napoleon was as ready as he'd ever be for the very large dildo.

Seeing as it was Napoleon's own toy, Illya was not at all surprised when his sub recognized just what pressing against his entrance now. His eyes went almost comically wide at the first touch and in his momentary panic, he forgot his orders not to speak.

"Oh no… oh God, Illya, please…"

"Do you wish to use your safe-word?" Illya asked coolly, continuing to press the dildo into his sub. Napoleon seemed to recall himself now and shook his head. "Very well," he continued. "But I think you may need some assistance with my instructions about not speaking. We'll deal with that next."

Napoleon nodded at this with a distressed look. Illya gave him a smile in return that was likely not the least comforting. He continued to slowly push the enormous dildo into his sub and while Napoleon moaned and panted at the intrusion, he did not speak words again.

Illya gagged him anyway. He'd set the gag out, expecting to need to use it, and as Napoleon had forgotten himself once, he was entitled. Napoleon was whimpering quietly by the time he had the whole dildo inside and continued even as Illya placed the small perforated ball in Napoleon's mouth and fastened the harness securing the gag over Napoleon's head. Illya just had to step back again to have a look at his sub, now bound, gagged and penetrated. He hummed in aroused approval, removing his shirt which now seemed much too warm, and caressing his hardening cock through his slacks.

"You should really see how delightful you look," Illya said. "It is quite… arresting." Napoleon could only blink up at him, a picture of debauched helplessness.

"Ah, my sweet Napasha… I believe I could almost come just standing here looking at you." Illya stepped up to the bed then and reached out to caress his sub's face. Napoleon turned his head to meet Illya's gaze, eyes troubled and wide with trepidation. "Are you frightened, Napasha? I imagine you have guessed correctly by now what is to come for you… Do you want to use your safe-word?"

Napoleon let out a breath through the ball-gag, then shook his head, his expression shifting to determined. "My brave beauty," Illya praised, then stepped away to pick something up from among the toys he'd set out. It was a bell with an elastic loop on it, which Illya placed in Napoleon's left hand, looping the elastic around three of his fingers so he wouldn't drop it.

"Since you cannot speak, the bell will be your safe-word. Ring it and we will stop." Napoleon nodded. "And I will be very careful with you, you know." Illya said as he sat beside Napoleon on the bed. "I've had a great deal of good advice today, and I believe I can take you where you need to go." Napoleon nodded once more, relief that seemed almost painful in its intensity evident on his features now.

It was this look that drove home to Illya, not only the power he had over Napoleon, but how much his partner and sub-of-the-moment needed him to take that power away from him. Power is like a drug —something any Top would tell you— but it comes with a burden of its own, which any Top would carry with pride. Illya felt that pride now, as well as the heady ecstasy of power, as he laid a plastic shower curtain on the bed beneath where Napoleon was suspended, then stood and picked up two items: a lit votive candle and a bowl of ice cubes.

The ice he set down on a bedside table where Napoleon would not see it, but he brandished the candle for his sub to see, making a show of tipping it so that the first few drops of liquid wax fell on Illya's upturned wrist —the way one might test the temperature of a baby's formula. He did this because no Top should subject his sub to an unknown torment. Napoleon would know then that Illya knew exactly what he was doing and just how hot the wax was. It did not seem to make Napoleon any happier at the prospect.

"I think you need something to distract you now, yes?" Napoleon shook his head, eyes wide as the Illya held the candle over his torso. He tipped it again, ever so carefully, so that a thin stream of wax poured out and spattered onto Napoleon's belly. Napoleon jerked and shuddered in the sting, but Illya knew it hadn't really been that hot, as the wax had fallen some distance and nearly cooled before it struck his skin. He lowered the candle now and poured a bit more onto Napoleon's chest, where it pooled and solidified in his chest hairs.

Napoleon shouted, feeling the real heat of the liquid wax on his skin. Illya set the candle down now and picked up an ice cube. Napoleon shouted again at the touch of ice against his skin and Illya thought he could make out muffled swear words. He smiled as evilly as he could and placed the ice cube in the hollow of Napoleon's throat. It began to melt quickly, little rivulets of icy water running down over his neck and shoulders.

"You should be glad I gagged you, you know," Illya leaned close to murmur into Napoleon's ear. "You can make any sound, say anything you want. You can swear, say whatever you like about me, or my ancestry, but the gag stops everything. You need not restrain yourself at all, you see? You are free."

Napoleon turned to gaze at Illya with an unreadable look, though it might have been a mix of gratitude and resentment. At any rate, having advised Napoleon to speak without restraint, Illya felt obliged to act without restraint. He took the half melted ice cube from Napoleon's throat and ran it over the inside of his sub's thigh, causing him to shudder and try to jerk away. Illya watched the course of trickling water then let another trickle of candle wax follow in its wake. To Napoleon it would feel as if the hot wax was heading straight for his balls and Illya was sure there were more swear words muffled by the gag now.

Illya repeated his actions on Napoleon's opposite thigh several times, so that a handful of wax rivulets striped the skin there. Then he peeled them off, ripping out the fine hairs on Napoleon's skin and making him yelp in startled pain. Illya numbed the area with another ice cube, but the look Napoleon shot him seemed to suggest that he did not feel the least grateful. Illya only grinned in fierce delight.

Now he shifted around so that he could easily reach Napoleon's chest and belly, making sure that his sub was watching him as he slowly lowered a piece of ice over one of Napoleon's nipples. His sub's eyes grew wide as he watched helplessly, shaking his head and begging with words made incomprehensible by the gag. Illya grinned cruelly then and surprised his sub by pouring a generous measure of hot wax onto the opposite nipple. Napoleon's whole body convulsed in response and he threw his head back to shout with agony. Illya chose that moment to lower the ice onto the first nipple.

Illya was sure that a great number of unflattering things were being said about him in that moment, but he heard none of them. With the wax cooling and hardening on Napoleon's right nipple, Illya bent his head to suck on the ice-chilled left one. His sub's shouts soon turned to whimpers, and then to pained cries when, after he had played with the nipple for a while, Illya bit down on it.

He straightened then and drew a spattered wax circle on Napoleon's abdomen. He traced the circle with a piece of ice next and left it sitting in Napoleon's navel. Napoleon's panting cries seemed to have the sound of begging to them now, but Illya cast his eye up to the bell clutched in his sub's hand and then ignored his cries. It was seeing the explicit evidence of the power he had over his sub that made him hard and Illya paused to take hold of himself again. He considered getting a cock ring for a moment, but then decided he would manage without.

Illya now poured a thin trail of hot wax down the inside of Napoleon's arm, so that it pooled in his armpit. Napoleon gave a pained jerk as the wax struck his skin, then jerked again when Illya pressed an ice cube against his wrist, so that icy melt water chased the fiery trail of wax down his arm. Aesthetically inclined to symmetry, Illya did the same to Napoleon's other arm next. He set the candle down then, stepping back to take in the sight of his wax spattered sub, crying out with every breath, head thrown back in abject surrender. His sub's restrained body was a thing of beauty, the ephemeral wax 'decorations' only adding to its appeal. It was the emotional state he'd rendered his sub into that gave Illya the greatest pleasure, however, and he reveled in it now.

Illya had thought long and hard about what Napoleon would need from him and drew some lessons from how Napoleon had mastered Illya before he'd left for Moscow. Illya knew that he buried his own submissive self under many protective layers and Napoleon had succeeded in stripping them away, one by one. Napoleon's case was different, in that he had encased himself in armor, both heavy and deeply embedded in its foundations. There would be no subtle, gradual way to remove it.

No. Illya would have to break it, violently severing the lines of tension that kept it intact. He would very nearly have to break Napoleon Solo himself and Illya was fairly sure that Napoleon had known that when he had committed himself into Illya's care. The immense trust of that surrender both intoxicated Illya and sobered him profoundly. His next and final act, Illya was more and more certain, was exactly what Napoleon needed.

*^*^*^*


	4. Chapter 4

Illya wrapped up the wax play first, flicking and peeling the bits of wax off his sub's body, some of which stripped away hairs and caused his sub to cry out each time. He wasn't fighting the pain anymore, however, Illya observed with pleasure as he cleared away the now wax splattered shower curtain from the bed. He finished cleaning Napoleon up with a soft towel, gently blotting up the remaining ice water and wiping away the last few wax crumbs. He leaned over his sub next, brushing his sweat-dampened hair back and kissing his forehead.

"You respond so beautifully, my Napasha," he murmured. "Only one more ordeal remains for you, and then you can come… and you will, as you never have before." Napoleon's answering moan was still somewhat distressed, but his eyes were serene and Illya's heart leapt to see it. "My brave, beautiful sub," Illya said, kissing his eyes and then his throat. "I do love you, with all my heart." Napoleon answered with something like a soft sob.

Now Illya finally removed his slacks, his cock springing gratefully free as he dropped the trousers carelessly on the floor. Next he picked up the bottle of lube and another small towel, which he laid on the bed under Napoleon. Then he settled himself, cross-legged on the bed between his sub's legs, stroking his hands along the recently wax-abused inner thighs. Napoleon moaned quietly and, glancing at his face, Illya saw that his sub's eyes were closed. He then took hold of the large dildo which had remained inside his sub throughout the last ordeal and tugged on it gently.

Napoleon gave a startled cry when it began to move, and moaned loudly when Illya began to thrust it in and out just a little. When he heard Napoleon's cries become desperate with arousal and saw his cock all but quivering with desire with precum seeping abundantly from the tip, Illya slowly eased the large dildo out. Napoleon groaned with dismay then and Illya truly felt for him. He knew, however, that Napoleon would soon have much more to take its place.

Coating his right hand in generous quantities of lube, Illya now pushed three fingers into his sub and found that they entered easily. He added a fourth and pushed them in up to the base of his thumb —which he used to caress Napoleons perineum. Napoleon cried out loudly, both in arousal and just a little in fear, as he tried to arch his back in the sling. Illya laid his face against Napoleon's left thigh while caressing the other as he slowly moved his four fingers in and out of his sub's widely stretched entrance.

Illya was easily as hard as his sub was by now, but Illya had already come twice today and could make himself wait. He thought Napoleon was ready for more now, however, so Illya pulled his four fingers almost all the way out, added more lube, and then tucked his thumb against the other four fingers. Napoleon could definitely feel it as Illya pushed it all into him, and his cries had the sound of pleading again. Illya was merciless, thrusting in and out of his sub so that his hand, with all five fingers, went a little deeper with every thrust.

Illya rotated his hand as he thrust, taking the utmost care as he stretched Napoleon's entrance wider and wider, his hand sinking inexorably deeper into his sub's body. Illya felt his own breath quicken as he pushed in past the knuckles, then past the joint at the base of his thumb. Napoleon was only panting and whimpering now and his cock had softened considerably at the stress of his entrance being stretched so severely. Both Leon and Edward had told Illya that his sub would be feeling as much pain as pleasure at this point, but that this would change soon enough.

Illya pulled his hand out again to add more lube and did not miss the bereft moan his sub gave. He pushed back in now, agonizingly slow, but without pause. Illya watched, fascinated and aroused as he'd ever been as a Top, as first his fingers, then his knuckles and thumb, then the whole base of his hand slowly disappeared into his sub. Napoleon's whimpers had now morphed into a steady keening, breaking from time to time as he drew gasping breaths. Illya gazed with astonishment at the sight of his wrist emerging from his sub's entrance, and at the sight of the bell still firmly in Napoleon's grip, and felt his heart swell, so much that he could barely speak.

"You've done it, you've taken it all," he said, his voice rough with adoration and astonishment. "My Napasha, my brave, beautiful sub, you've taken my whole hand inside you."

Napoleon gave a sobbing moan in reply and Illya gently stroked his thigh to calm him. They remained thus for a long moment as Illya felt Napoleon's body slowly relax to accept him. He leaned forward to lick the base of his sub's cock and Napoleon responded with an agonized but aroused groan. His cock began to lift itself again, continuing to harden as Illya began to slowly move his hand inside Napoleon. He rotated it just a little, feeling the tight passage relax just a bit more, then he slowly, gradually, curled his fingers into a fist.

Napoleon was back to keening brokenly again, but now his cock was hard and rigidly upright, seeping precome once more. _Now,_ Illya thought, heart racing, slowly rotating his fist so that his knuckles caressed Napoleon's prostate.

"Come now, my Napasha, my love," Illya commanded, a little broken voiced himself. "Come now and give me everything."

Come Napoleon did, screaming through the gag, his body convulsing violently and all but crushing Illya's fist inside him. Illya could hardly care less, as the first sight of his sub's cock spurting forth jet after jet of come prompted Illya's own cock to erupt with its own climax. He cried out in his own ecstasy, head thrown back against Napoleon's thigh and struggled with all his might to remain upright. Panting deeply, Illya finally slumped forward to rest with his forehead on Napoleon's right thigh and listened to his sub's heavy breaths coming in counterpoint to his own.

"My sweet Napasha, you are magnificent," Illya sighed after some time had passed, pulling himself upright. "I must take my hand away now, but I will do it very slowly. You must ring the bell if you wish me to stop."

Napoleon made an affirmative sound and nodded, so Illya began, slowly and carefully, to extract himself. When he was done Napoleon gave a long sobbing moan and relaxed utterly in the sling, every last shred of tension gone. 

Feeling the satisfaction of a day's work well done, Illya shook out his aching hand, leaned over to kiss the inside of his sub's thigh, then cleared away the bottle of lube and the large dildo. He used the towel to mop up the come on Napoleon's chest and belly, and his own from his belly and legs and then set to work releasing Napoleon from the sling. This was no easy task as Napoleon had gone completely boneless in the wake of his orgasm. Illya took his time, however, releasing Napoleon's arms first, then his legs, removing the harness that secured his gag last.

Napoleon still showed no signs of moving of his own volition, so Illya had to lift him bodily from the sling. It was hardly the first time Illya had had to carry his partner's full weight and, as long as they stayed in this business, it was not likely to be the last. He laid Napoleon gently on the bed, then hastily cleared away the sling and dropped it onto the floor. He would put it away properly later, but now he needed to hold his sub in his arms and his sub, likewise, needed him.

It was when Illya lay down beside Napoleon and enclosed him is his arms that Napoleon finally showed some signs of life, twining his own arms around Illya to draw him close and press his face into Illya's shoulder. A moment later Illya felt warmth and dampness at his shoulder, though Napoleon still made no sound. Illya could feel his partner's unsteady breaths against his collarbone, but merely held Napoleon close, stroking his hair calmingly. After a time Illya felt Napoleon's breath become steady again. A few moments after that Napoleon finally spoke, rough voiced and so quiet Illya could hardly make it out.

Ï was so scared," Napoleon murmured against his Top's shoulder. "So goddamned scared… Every second, from the moment you left to the moment the plane touched down in New York. There were so many ways things could have gone wrong… so many ways I could have failed you… If I hadn't been strong enough, spoken Russian well enough, been intimidating enough…"

"Trust me," Illya broke in. "You were more than intimidating enough. At the hearing, if there'd been any subs in the room they'd all have come crawling to abase themselves before you… and I'd have had to kill them all."

"Ah, Illya," Napoleon sighed fondly, then sniffled. Illya reached over to get a tissue from the bedside table, wiped his sub's eyes and helped him blow his nose. This last took almost more effort than Napoleon was capable of at the moment and he fell back into Illya's arms when it was done. "You've gone and broken me," he confessed into Illya's shoulder. "Utterly and completely."

"That was my intention," Illya said, lifting his sub's face so he could kiss it. "You seemed to need it."

"Well, you weren't wrong," Napoleon said, giving a languid yawn. "I can't move a finger."

"Then don't," Illya said, pulling Napoleon close again. "You needn't go anywhere or do anything, my Napsha. Just stay here and rest; sleep if you like."

"You'll stay?" Napoleon asked, still needy, though that was understandable.

"I'm not going anywhere," Illya promised.

"Then I think…" Napoleon began, eyes closed, already drifting. "I think I may sleep for a bit."

Illya held his sub as he slipped into slumber —comfortable and relaxed, but not sleepy. He lay contentedly beside Napoleon, arms entwined even as he slept, aware of how much he cared for the man he held, and how much he cherished the rare occasions when he could really care for him. After a time, Illya, too, drifted off into sleep.

 

*^*^*^*

Napoleon woke, stretched and slowly came to realize that there was no one next to him in the bed. The space was still warm, however, and he could hear that he was not alone, as the sounds of someone bustling about the place were easily evident. Illya was still with him and, Napoleon noted, catching the mouth-watering scents of garlic and oregano emanating from the kitchen, still taking care of him.

Napoleon stretched again, checking himself over thoroughly. He ached mildly here and there and sitting was going to be more of an issue than it usually was for a day or two, but overall he was in fine shape. Mentally… well assessing his mental state was never so easy or straight forward as assessing his physical state, but he had slept like a baby the last few hours without a trace of any nightmare, and that seemed a positive indicator.

He rolled to the edge of the bed and sat cautiously, then decided on standing as the more comfortable option. He reached for his robe almost instinctively as he headed toward the door, then stopped himself, because Illya had not given him permission to clothe himself yet. He shrugged philosophically and then padded naked into the kitchen to find his Top.

According to the clock in the kitchen it was a little after midnight. Napoleon had no idea of how long he'd slept since he had completely lost track of time from the early afternoon onwards. He thought his lunch had been at a more or less normal lunch time, however, so the sudden and loud growl his stomach made was entirely justified. Illya, wearing only a pair of boxer shorts, was hard at work slicing open a long baguette but was alerted to Napoleon's presence by his digestive complaint and turned immediately to face him.

"Sleeping beauty awakes at last," Illya said with a smile. "How are you feeling?"

"Pretty damned good, all in all," Napoleon said, running fingers through his sleep tousled hair. "How long did I sleep, anyhow?"

"Around four hours," Illya answered. "You seemed to be sleeping pretty soundly so I got up around an hour ago to put the lasagna in the oven. If you'd like to put on a pair of shorts you are free to do so. Dinner will be ready as soon as the garlic bread is done."

"You definitely do know how to make a fellow feel cared for," Napoleon said with a smile, stepping forward to greet his Top with a kiss… which turned out to be very garlic flavored.

"And you know how to make a Top feel very well attended," Illya said, reaching down to overtly grope one of Napoleon's butt cheeks. "Now go get dressed before I become distracted and burn the garlic bread." He gave Napoleon's ass a passing swat as he turned to go.

When Napoleon returned from the bedroom, he saw that Illya had pulled the kneeling bench up to the set table. Napoleon sat experimentally and found it only slightly uncomfortable, but nothing that would distract him overmuch. Illya watched him sit, keen eyes catching every twitch and grimace.

"How are your… nether parts feeling?" he asked.

"As well as could possibly be expected," Napoleon answered honestly. "Pretty much the same as last time, which means that you carried that off as well as any professional."

"A professional what?" Illya asked as he set the steaming hot lasagna on the table next to the salad, garlic bread and bottle of red wine.

"In my case, it was a professional dynamic therapist," Napoleon said as Illya took his place at the table. "Which I suppose you'll want to know about now."

"You suppose correctly," Illya said, cutting a square of lasagne and serving it onto Napoleon's plate. He served Napoleon's salad next, then served himself. The wine had been poured already and Napoleon took a sip before continuing.

"You actually have half the story already," Napoleon began. "It was after I'd lost my sub in the war, but what I didn't tell you about was the circumstances… and how badly I took his death." Napoleon lifted his wine glass again, but stared into its crimson depths rather than drinking. "I had already bought his collar and was going to offer it to him when we next had leave, which would have been in a few days. But we got caught in a skirmish just outside the base that day. He… took a bullet that was meant for me… and it just about destroyed me."

"You thought you'd failed, as a Top," Illya said, illumination clear in his voice as he reached across the table to take his hand.

Napoleon squeezed Illya's hand, grateful for the contact. "Yeah," he confirmed with a sigh. "I don't really remember a lot about the next few weeks. My file states that I was nearly catatonic. I'd survived a plane crash and a ten day trek across sniper and snake infested jungles and returned to duty days later, but losing the sub I'd been about to collar got me a psychological discharge without a scratch on me. I was sent home to my parents and they did what they could. I remember… I knew I was home, and that I was out of the war for good, but everything seemed foggy. I could only barely function. I had absolutely no volition of my own and couldn't seem to take interest in anything. The psychologist my parents hired for me said I'd gone non-dynamic, probably permanently."

Illya drew in a pained breath at this and Napoleon couldn't blame him. Even being a switch, or a mono-sexual would be considered an improvement over such a state. Napoleon would have been considered an invalid and pitied the rest of his life —his family, as well.

"As you might imagine, this was considered entirely unacceptable by my family," Napoleon continued. "They'd happily have thrown every penny they had at a solution and luckily, instead of hiring some quack, they were pointed in the direction of a dynamic therapist and Top named Virginia Johnson."

"Didn't she write a book or something?" Illya asked.

"You could say that," Napoleon said with a chuckle. "She wrote it along with her sub, a Dr. William Masters."

"You... had private therapy from the author of the Johnson and Masters book?" Illya asked, incredulous.

"Well, money was not an object," Napoleon said with a smile. "And my parents were really desperate. I would have been too if I hadn't been so screwed up. She Topped me, fisted me, and pretty much broke me down, which was exactly what I needed. She did a few more sessions with me afterwards, but it was clear that she'd mostly set me to rights in the first one. My parents, of course, never once considered that I'd ever need anything like that again and it was never, ever spoken of afterwards. They knew better than to say anything when I announced that I would probably never collar a sub of my own, however."

Illya sat back now, looking a little winded. "Do you really mean to say that I Topped you as well as Virginia Johnson?" he asked.

"Yes I do," Napoleon replied seriously. "I may not have been in as bad a shape as I was after I lost Aaron, but then I'm not twenty two anymore either. I've got a few more years and a lot more experience under my belt, but it still took me a while before I realized what I needed. I… I honestly don't know what I would have done if I didn't have you in my life Illya."

"Very likely you would not have gotten yourself into such an emotionally fraught situation," Illya said, staring down at his plate.

"No, you don't know that," Napoleon said shaking his head as he grasped Illya's hand anew. "The life we lead… some part of me knew it was always a risk. If I lost an innocent I was meant to protect, or failed in some other particularly wrenching way… God knows what else might make me go off the rails. This is what it means to be an Alpha Top, my Illyushka, but as long as I've got you… I know where to turn for help."

"It is my honor and privilege to be able to do so," Illya said, lifting Napoleon's hand to kiss it. "Now you eat before your food gets cold and I will share with you a story of my own… or at least partly my own."

Napoleon happily tucked into his lasagna, which he recognized as having been prepared by an excellent local deli, and listened attentively.

"I was a very angry, bitter young man when I first met Leon Theremin," Illya began. "I had just lost my position as a field agent in the KGB and been forced to accept a state collar. I considered my transfer to research and technology development to be a demotion and an extremely unjust one. When I saw that Theremin, my supervisor, also bore a state collar, but seemed untroubled by it… I am ashamed to say I was… rather an ass to him."

"I'd say I was shocked," Napoleon said mildly, "but then I would be lying."

Illya gave a wry smile. "I am able to be more discriminating these days," he said. "Back then I was angry at everything and everyone, even those who I should have known would be good and true friends." He paused to sigh and take a sip of wine. "One day I was exceptionally cruel and accused him of not having the sense to know what his collar meant and of cravenly accepting his masters' orders. I told him that he did not know what it was to lose his freedom because he had never known it, and of course in this I was very, very wrong." Napoleon nodded as he took a bite of garlic bread, as curious as Illya must have been to hear Theremin's story.

"So this," Illya continued, "would be the part of the story that is not mine. Theremin told me that day, without anger or resentment, about how, when he was a younger man, he had pleased his masters at the KGB so well, with his various inventions, that they permitted him to travel to the West, as a reward. He had recently invented his electronic musical instrument, and wished to promote it, and so a series of concerts and demonstrations were organized, in Western Europe and in the US. In the US it was seen that there might be a market for his invention, and so his visa was extended for the purpose of training some American citizen to become proficient on the instrument and act as a promoter. He trained a number of applicants, but the most talented by far was Mistress Rockmore."

"Of course," Napoleon remarked. "So _that's_ how he met her."

"Just so," Illya confirmed. "He did not have a collar in those days, as he had come to the KGB as a civilian. Their dynamic meshed perfectly and before long Mistress Rockmore wished to offer him a collar, but by then Theremin knew that his time in the US was coming to an end. He feared to accept her collar, lest his Soviet masters take it badly, for she was the one they would blame. He had not yet told her that he primarily worked for the KGB, or what his work entailed."

"He kept all that secret from his Top?" Napoleon inquired, disapproving.

"She was not officially his Top yet. Theremin did soon confess all, as she insisted on knowing the reason he was refusing her collar. Since it was clear that they did wish to remain together, they both agreed to go into hiding in the US. She changed universities, and he took a false name and for several years they were able to live their lives undisturbed."

"There's no way they could do that for long," Napoleon commented.

"Indeed not," Illya confirmed. "One early morning the KGB broke into their flat and had them both chloroformed before they could do anything. Theremin woke up on a KGB plane headed to Moscow and found that he had been given a state collar while he was unconscious. He told me that this was the most painful moment of his life, not because he'd been collared against his will, but because he realized, much too late, that if he had let Mistress Rockmore collar him she might have had some rights to prevent him being collared by the state. Instead she had no rights to even know if he was alive, much less claim him as her own. He promised himself on that day, that he would do whatever he had to, in order to return himself to her."

"And so he did," said Napoleon with satisfaction.

"He did, though it took him seventeen years," Illya replied. "Befriending me added complications, for he did not want me to be trapped as he was. Luckily for all of us, he is a truly brilliant man, and was able to manage his own escape and still find a way to help me."

"Which I certainly appreciate," Napoleon said, lifting his wine glass. "To the brilliant Leon Theremin, with much gratitude."

Illya toasted in turn, both Theremin and his Mistress. "There was one more thing which I learned from my mentor, which we may be able to benefit from now," he said when he'd drunk his measure. "When Theremin finally gave his Top his reasons for refusing her collar, she was, as you might imagine, not content to leave her chosen sub without any sign of her claim. She was able to convince him, instead, that they would each have one nipple pierced, and that on the piercing each would wear a small token of the other. She gave him a faceted gold bead and he gave her one of platinum. He showed me this in secret, soon after he told me his story, for the Soviets had no idea of its significance and it was, therefore, most precious to him. Even then I wondered if I might ever meet someone with whom I would want to exchange such tokens… though considering recent events, I believe I have my answer."

Illya's eyes were fast on Napoleon's as he took in this idea. The more he thought about it, the more he liked it. "If that was Mistress Rockmore's idea, then I would have to say that she is as brilliant as her sub, in her own way," he said. "And for my own part, I would say that nothing would please me more than to exchange such tokens with you."

Illya positively beamed. "Unless you have any other place in mind, I believe Edward, at the Sub-Station, would be pleased to do the piercing." Napoleon allowed as how that sounded fine to him, already thinking of what token he would chose for Illya to wear as they both finished their meal.

"You know," Illya said to him as he wiped his plate clean with the last piece of garlic bread, "that I will not be your Top tomorrow morning."

"I believe you've accomplished what you set out to do," Napoleon said, "In my case at least. What about you, Illya? Do you think you're ready to move back into your own place?"

Illya looked down at his plate for a moment, considering. "In a few days, I think," he said. "I may still need a little time to adjust, but I will be ready soon." 

Napoleon reached across to take Illya's hand. "You are welcome to stay here, you know, as long as you want, however long that might be," he said.

"I do know," Illya said, squeezing Napoleon's hand as he looked up to meet his eyes directly. "But besides making things more… complicated at work if it becomes known that we share a bed… I think it's probably better for both of us to live apart… more natural, somehow." 

"Natural?" Napoleon inquired.

"You've read something of Kipling, I imagine," Illya said after a moment's consideration. Napoleon nodded. "Have you read the short stories he wrote about animals? Not the The Jungle Books, but the ones about how the animals came to be how they are today?"

Though he hadn't read those stories in years, Napoleon suddenly knew exactly what Illy was talking about. "'I am the cat who walks by himself'," Napoleon quoted.

"And all places are alike to me," Illya finished. "Yes, that, exactly."

"When you put it that way," Napoleon said. "I see your point." He lifted his wine glass again. "To cats who walk by themselves… together."

Illya echoed the toast and their eyes met —Illya's piercing aquamarine gaze burning into Napoleon's soul and Napoleon's dark eyes smoldering in return. They touched glasses and drank together.

*^*^*^*

Epilogue

They got a dinner invitation a few days later, from Mistress Rockmore and Leon Theremin. They both thought it appropriate to bring congratulatory gifts in celebration of Leon's collaring. Illya's gift of an album of modern orchestral music and Napoleon's of a bottle of venerable and excellent brandy were both well received. The food was catered as Mistress Rockmore did not cook. Leon only knew how to make borscht and scrambled eggs, though he informed them with pride that he was enrolled in a cooking course and looked forward to cooking a dinner for them himself soon.

Since both Illya and Napoleon both truly enjoyed Mistress Clara's and Leon's company, they felt certain that he could well find his cooking skills put to the test on a semi-regular basis. Soon it came time for the guests to depart, however, and Illya asked Mistress Clara for permission to take his leave of his former mentor with a brief embrace. His Top granted it kindly, but as they drew apart Illya gave a brief grimace of pain, then blushed. At their hosts' curious looks Napoleon blushed as well and then, of course, explanations had to be made.

"As you know," Illya began with a glance at his partner, "neither one of us is inclined either to offer a collar or to wear one. However, we did wish, after the events of the last month, to give each other some sort of… token of our partnership."

"It was Illya's idea," Napoleon put in. "Though he got the original idea from you, Dr. Theremin." 

"Oh!" Clara and Leon both exclaimed with illumination. "May we..." Leon glanced at his Top for approval before continuing. "May we see them… if it would not be an intrusion?"

Now Napoleon and Illya exchanged blushing glances once more, then Napoleon said, "I guess if anyone had the right to see, then it would be you two."

They both loosened their ties, in near unison, and unbuttoned their shirts halfway. Napoleon revealed his right nipple, now ornamented with a small gold ring from which a liquid blue bead of aquamarine was suspended. Below Illya's left nipple could be seen a bead of faceted jet, so sharply cut that it seemed to throw sparks like a diamond.

"It would seem that you are due congratulations as well," Mistress Clara said with a smile. Both Illya and Napoleon became immersed in the act of buttoning up their shirts rather than replying.

"It is not any sort of formal declaration or arrangement," Illya explained eventually. "Merely a private exchange… of tokens of esteem."

"Esteem?" Leon said with a knowing smile. "Well, I suppose that's one way of putting it."

The guests departed then, leaving friends and comforts to step out into the city night where a mild spring rain had begun to fall. The car was parked some blocks away and so they walked, heedless of the perils of the city or the discomforts of the weather. Side by side they went out into the Wet Wild City, passing beneath the Wet Wild Trees and the Wet Wild Roofs, holding each other's warm, strong hands and walking by their wild lones.

=FIN=

**Author's Note:**

> Leon Theremin was, of course, a real guy, and the real inventor of the electronic musical instrument which bears his name. He was also really a genius electrical engineer and also really did make listening devices for the Soviet Union. It is also true that he had an American paramour and musical protege, named Clara Rockmore, whom he was kiddnapped away from by the KGB, and he did not, in real life, see her again until they were both in their eighties or ninetys --a moment documented by the makers of the 1994 documentary: [Theremin: An Electronic Odyssey](http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0108323/?ref_=fn_al_tt_3), which the author highly recommends.  
> He also, however, married several times while in the USSR, apparently happily, according to [Wikipedia](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Leon_Theremin)


End file.
